


pills/pals

by softsocky



Series: socky shorts [8]
Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, Short & Sweet, bandfic, idk this is just soft and fluffy, mention of sleeping pills, why is rocky sleeping in all my fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: Rocky can't sleep.





	pills/pals

**Author's Note:**

> amy shark's ['weekends'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eOyX42oTy1g) is, if i do say so myself, one of the most beautiful songs in the universe. so please, do, give it a listen! I listened to it religiously whilst writing this, so much so that it is actually a little inspired by it!

He can’t really remember when it started. Can’t remember a time before sleepless nights; a time where empty pill jars and refill prescriptions lived at his bedside. Can’t remember what had _started_ it, can’t remember _why_ , can only remember that one day he woke up and never went to sleep again.

Of course, he had _slept._ The pills made sure of that. But it never felt _genuine;_ never felt like he’d actually gone and done it. The pills were a placebo, of sorts. Tricked his body into thinking he was well rested, but after being awake for only two hours, Rocky would feel the tingling sensation around his eyelids, feel the true weight of his limbs as he carried himself up the stairs to the dance studio.

He pushed _through._ He always did. He was reliable and charismatic and dependable, and he always made sure the fans saw that, too, so they wouldn’t worry. It was hard, though, because some days he felt it more than others, sometimes it was too strong for him to resist. The pull behind his eyes that lured him closer and closer to the brink of unconsciousness was far too tempting on days like this, where the weather was overcast and colder than all the others, where Rocky was snuggled deep inside a shaggy blanket and sweater that he was sure didn’t belong to him, and his body stretched out across the floor.

It wasn’t uncommon for the band to sleep wherever and whenever possible. With their busy schedules, it was often impossible to get enough rest. Mostly for Rocky, for sure, but he’d lived with insomnia for so long that he could, more often than not, win the battle with his exhaustion. The others struggled, though, more than he – because they hadn’t faced what he had faced for years now, and their bodies couldn’t handle the deprivation. They needed their full eight hours, and sometimes, when they had an hour break between shoots, they’d all find spots to sleep. Except Rocky. He’d sit and fiddle with the apps on his phone, eyes occasionally flicking over to the others, watching their eyes flutter behind shut lids, wondering what they were dreaming, wondering _how_ they were dreaming.

Rocky often founds himself feeling envious. Found himself questioning what he was doing _wrong_ ; why he couldn’t _sleep._ Why he’d stay awake to all hours of the night and early morning tearing his hair out, feeling the tears of frustration and exhaustion leaving a line of evidence for what he could not control, an unfriendly reminder for when morning broke and his eyes were still open and dry like sand. On the bad days, where he’d break down and couldn’t handle himself, he’d slouch down against any surface he could find that was suitable, or even suitable if it worked just _enough_ , and he’d let himself surrender to that pull. The boys knew him well enough to know that if they saw him sleeping, let him do so until the very last minute he’s needed. Having known him for two years now, known him for _longer_ , even, they knew about his sleeping habits – or lack thereof.

Similar to now, with his body wrapped around the blanket he’d dragged off the back of a nearby chair, head resting uncomfortably on a rolled-up jacket, the zipper digging painfully into his neck. He was too tired to do anything _about_ it, though, so he waited till his skin turned numb from irritation before shutting his eyes and evening out his breath again. He laid there for what felt around twenty minutes, hearing the accommodating silence from their stylists and managers, giving them the much-needed peace. The twenty minutes felt longer, though, because the ceiling air conditioning was turned up too high and he could feel himself shivering, and he just couldn’t get _comfortable,_ not even with his blanket and his makeshift pillow and numb neck, he felt itchy and gross and desperate.

He knew sleep wouldn’t come – the sting behind his eyes both exhaustion and tears, now, and he felt dizzy and _sore_ and unable to contain his emotions. He sobbed a little, but sounded more like a whine, and with how quiet the room was, it sounded loud. No one spoke though, and no other noises could be heard in the room. Rocky let himself soak himself in the resonating silence, let himself count the lines of tears on his cheeks.   
Suddenly, though, things felt _different._ There was hand on his waist, tugging him backwards, and when he jumped at the unexpected contact, there was a delicate _shhh, it’s just me_ whispered into his ear, and he immediately relaxed. He knew that voice to be Sanha’s, though he didn’t know what he younger was doing. His back was flush against his chest now, and the heat that radiated off him was enough to distract Rocky from the strangeness of the situation. Sure, the boys had slept in the same bed together, sleep beside each other all the time; had to share beds in hotel rooms on more than one occasion. But this was different. This was _cuddling_ , this was done with a purpose, intentionally grabbed his waist and dragged him across towards him. Rocky said nothing about it though, because with Sanha’s breathing against his neck, he could feel himself release doses of negative energy, feel himself absorb some of Sanha’s positivity. He still felt _tired,_ but now he felt like his body was doing something about it. For the first time in a long time, Rocky slept along with all the other boys.

 

They don’t really talk about it when they wake up. Their manager is shaking them awake gently, and Rocky curls inwards and feels the long expanse of Sanha’s chest against him. He stiffens when he feels the younger chuckle, dragging his face from where it was tucked into his neck. All six sit up, eyes scanning the room blearily, the others settling on Rocky, who looked just as they did. They then looked to Sanha, who was staring into space, trying to wake himself up, but who still had a hand on Rocky’s waist. Rocky blushed, though unsure _why_. Maybe it was because the grip there felt comforting, more than he had liked; or maybe it was because he finally got some rest because of the younger; or maybe, it was because the hand on his waist there had a possessive and protective grip. He wasn’t sure, but he was thankful for it, despite the teasing shoves he received later from his hyungs.

 

It happens again a few weeks later, when they all finally have a weekend free on their schedule. The Saturday is spent having extra-long showers and extra-long phone calls to family back home, something that they were always robbed of when time was scarce. The Sunday is spent with the boys – bar Rocky – sleeping in till noon and then playing video games and going to the plaza for the rest of the afternoon. Sunday night finds Rocky on the couch in the living room, the dormitory lights all turned off, all other bandmates fast asleep – had been for hours. It was nearing midnight, and they had a five am start, and Rocky was already tempted for a cup of coffee. He knew that tomorrow would bring torment and delirium, but that was nothing _new_ , and he no longer needed to mentally prepare himself for it. Way back when this had all started, when he would toss and turn and struggle to find solace in unconsciousness _,_ he used to panic when morning came. He’d panic because he knew he was going to be exhausted, utterly useless, and, more surprisingly, he knew he’d get scolded by the makeup artists for the black bags under his eyes.

Now, though, he doesn’t panic. In fact, quite the opposite. It’s somewhat calming knowing that tomorrow would be no different, that there’d be no remarkable difference between now and then. Despite hating his disease, the tiredness that owns not only his mind but the rest of his body, too, he finds _comfort_ in it. While it’s there, it means everything is the same – everything is _normal._ And Rocky finds safety in that.

But things change. Things are destined to right from the dawn of time, and Rocky is its unsuspecting victim now.

He’s spread out on the lounge, nestled into the decorative cushions, the blanket from his bed across his legs. He’s listening to himself breathe in and out, trying to memorise each intake, trying to ease his mind. Despite knowing it would never work, he at least tempted himself with the idea of falling asleep. Tried all the old techniques that had never worked in the first place – counted sheep, counted his breathing, counted the _hours_ – but alas he found nothing but a taunting laugh coming from his mind, followed by a barely-there shuffling of feet.

Rocky turned his head towards the noise, seeing Sanha move from the hallway through the lounge. Even in the poor lighting – the only light a tiny sliver coming in from the bi-fold windows, where MJ had _accidentally_ ripped the blinds down from – Rocky can tell the boy is exhausted. He’s wrapped himself up in his own duvet from his bed, and cocooned himself in it so only his face and feet were exposed to the outside. A little bit of his hair was peeking out from under the blanket, too, and Rocky would coo at how adorable he looked had he not been so surprised.

“Sanha?” His voice wasn’t thick with sleep, or deep, or gravelly, or whatever else. It was completely normal, something that the boys had – at first – been so terribly shocked to hear. Even Sanha’s voice sounded a little croaky in the morning, so to hear Rocky’s stay the exact same clarified what everyone was thinking: another sleepless night for Minhyuk.

“Are you alright?” The boy hadn’t seemed to hear him, or had just decided not to respond. He slinked his way across the room towards the couch, towards _him_ , and plopped himself down beside him. Rocky notes that the boy smells like spearmint, and knows it to be Sanha’s toothpaste; can also smell lilies and daisies, and knows it to the laundry detergent the younger had used to clean his sheets today.

Sanha curls both hands around Rocky’s waist again, and without giving any warning, he _lifts_ , and heaves Rocky upwards in his arms. He splutters, but finds himself too shocked to protest, and by the time he has found his words, Sanha has slipped in behind him and placed him back down. Rocky knew Sanha had some strength, but not _that much_. Rocky was startled, to say the least, and felt more awake than ever.

Their new position wasn’t very different to the first time. Sanha had his body curled around Rocky’s from behind, so the latter’s back was flush with his chest. Rocky muttered _little spoon_ to himself inwardly, a half-grumble at the fact that he was older, but wasn’t being treated as such. Though, to be fair, he couldn’t deny the fact that he _enjoyed_ being held this way. Like the feeling of protective, warm arms around him, holding him close, coaxing him into sleep right along with them.

Rocky felt _tired._ Had known this feeling his whole life, it seemed, but never knew how to stop it owning him. Right now, though, the tiredness felt different, heavier. Or not heavier, but wider, somehow, so it felt the same but covered more ground in his head. Enveloped him more, he thinks. But really, he doesn’t know what to think, because he’s asleep before he can decide.

 

(Though he slept, Rocky woke earlier – five am. It was enough sleep for him, though, so much so that he felt alert and bright and wasn’t bothered by the sound of Dongmin in the kitchen. The elder always rose first, made sure coffee was hot and ready for the others, made sure Rocky had the first – and _biggest_ – mug. Now, though, instead of getting up and getting the drink, he let himself sink deeper into the couch cushions, into Sanha’s arms. They weren’t as tight now as they were last night, but his arm was slung over his waist and pressed against his stomach, as if stopped the boy from escaping from his arms. Not that Rocky had any intention of going anywhere, embarrassed by how much he liked it, but not enough to give it up just yet.

He scrolled mindlessly through his twitter feed, before stopping on a recent one from their official page. It was signed off from Dongmin, a single caption accompanying _such cute little makane_ followed by a billion emoji’s. Later the boys would tease him for the photo, but right now, Rocky giggles and turns bright red at the sight of the photo Dongmin had posted – a photo of Sanha’s head tucked into his neck, Rocky in his arms, taken only a few hours ago while the two were still asleep).

 

The week had been torturous. Sanha was away for two weeks with his family, which left Rocky in a predicament where sleep wasn’t even a dream anymore. It was a distant memory, one he had with Sanha alone, and now that he was _gone_ , Rocky felt himself going crazy.

He kept trying his tactics, his breathing techniques, even tried his counting again. Instead, Rocky spent his time in the lounge room, finding himself awake and itching for _something_ , something more than sleep but not sure _what._

He spent the whole first week there, and from what Rocky could tell, could remember, he had only slept five hours holistically. His brain felt differently, like it was made of liquid, and was sloshing around in his head. Even before all this had started with Sanha, Rocky got more sleep than this usually. Power naps were his best friend sometimes, too, but now they avoided him like the plague.  He spent the first week there but not really _there_ , counting the days Sanha came home, glad they didn’t have anything planned with Fantagio for the time he was away.

The second week, Rocky took matters into his own hands.

Jin Jin eyed him curiously when he came into the room Friday night, blanket from the couch tucked under his arms. He threw it down onto his bed, then proceeded to kick off his slippers. He ignored the second set of eyes falling on him, MJ’s, both his hyungs staring at him wordlessly from their top bunks. It had been a week since Rocky had been in here, and often, he didn’t even bother trying before that because he didn’t sleep anyway. But here was, trying, at least.

But, instead of getting into his own bed, he turned and climbed into Sanha’s.

It worked the first, second, and third night. Rocky let himself soak into Sanha’s lingering scent, the mix of laundry detergent and toothpaste and the general smell of _Sanha_ that Rocky couldn’t identify, but was sweet and fruity and Rocky felt like he could almost taste it. The fourth night was harder, because the sheets smelt less of Sanha and more of him, and though he slept, he was becoming greedy. He hadn’t slept this much in all his life, yet here he was, complaining about only having five hours of sleep in one night.

It was such a revelation, such a shift, that the boys didn’t tease him once. Rocky felt _alive_ for the first time in a long time, felt fully present, like his whole mind wasn’t occupied by exhaustion. But by the fifth and sixth night, Rocky was back on the couch, sleepless and shifty and skin breaking out again.

When Sanha returns home on the seventh night, he’s too tired to as so much say hello to Rocky. He collapses onto his own bed, and while Rocky lies awake on the couch, he wonders if Sanha can smell him on his bedsheets. He doubts it.

 

Rocky doesn’t recall getting into this position. Doesn’t know how long ago, either, but knows he’s enjoying it. Sanha is working away on some homework on the couch, laptop on the cushions beside him. At first, the laptop had been on his lap, but Rocky was sat beside him, and had been shifting closer and closer to him at the minutes passed. Soon, Sanha was sighing, and pushing the computer aside with a smile. He turned to Rocky, patting his lap without a word.

He sighed in relief. It wasn’t something he would ever ask for, but it was something about Sanha’s smell, something about his touch, something about _Sanha_ that allowed him to sleep. Allowed him to do more than that, even, allowed him to _rest._

Sanha typed with one hand, the other nestled in his hair. Sanha’s long, slender fingers are carding mindlessly through his wavy hair, untangling the knots and tags and soothing his fingers over his scalp when he tugs too rough. The feeling is nostalgic, Rocky almost positive that his Mum used to do this to him as a child, and he relishes in it.

As he listens to Sanha work away at his homework, listens to the boy humming as he does so. Rocky snuggles closer to Sanha’s stomach, resting his forehead against it, so that Sanha’s warmth envelopes him that much more. He feels vibrations around Sanha’s body, knowing that the younger is chuckling at him, but he’s too limp to do anything about it.

The hand in his hair keeps brushing, tugging, carding, and then he feels Sanha’s breath against his hair, too. The maknae blows cool air behind the movement of his fingers, and Rocky’s eyes slip closed at the feeling. The breathing stops a few moments later, and he can’t stop the little whine that slips between his teeth. He hears Sanha chuckle at that, mutter a quiet, little _you’re cute_ , before Rocky feels himself fall.

 

A few nights later, when Rocky has lost track of which bed he’s in, what night it is, and how many hours of sleep he’s had, he wakes up blurry eyed and dizzy to a room shrouded in darkness. The only light is coming from the phone in Sanha’s hand, and Rocky watches the boy scroll through his Instagram feed for a moment. Sanha hasn’t realised he’s awake, and Rocky pressed his lips together to stop himself from squealing at how cute he looked. The hand that wasn’t holding his phone was around Rocky’s neck, so that the tips of his fingers tickled along the top of Rocky’s spine. The feeling left a trail of fire in their wake, and if only Sanha _knew_ what he did to him, or _didn’t_ do to him. If Sanha knew that Rocky felt more alive and more _awake_ than ever with him, then maybe Sanha would drop his phone right now and kiss him.

Kiss him like he meant it, like he had known it all along. Kiss him like he knew of the seriousness of Rocky’s illness but knew that he could, to some extent, ease him through it. Sanha was, by no means, a cure – but he was _more_ than a cure could ever offer, too. Sanha was soft hands and cute smiles and spearmint and lilies and everything Rocky ever want.

In the low light, the sound of MJ and Jin Jin’s sleeping sounds radiating down from above them, Rocky felt lost in Sanha, lost in the way he had wished he could always be lost in sleep. He used to think that _that_ was all that mattered, but had come to learn – _had come to realise_ – that Sanha meant that much more.

He didn’t know _why_ though, couldn’t figure it out as he watches the boy bit his lip to muffle a laugh now, the video on the screen amusing him in the early hours of the morning. He doesn’t know why Sanha, of all people, caught him so easily in his snare and reeled him in. All he knows is that while his whole life he’s been wanting to fall sleep, Sanha’s the first one that’s made him want to stay awake.   

And sure, Rocky was _tired._ But not of Sanha – never of Sanha.

 

When morning breaks, and Rocky wakes up again, it’s to the face of a sleeping Sanha. The boy’s lips are parted slightly, and Rocky smiles at him fondly as he goes and lifts a fingertip to the boy’s cheek. He presses it against the soft skin there, forming a little cavern against his face, and giggles when Sanha tiredly swats away his hand.

“Good morning,” he says, and Sanha scrunches his face up, stretches, and then softens out.

His eyes open the tiniest sliver, looking across at Rocky. “Good morning.” His voice is soft and small and warm, and filled with the same fondness Rocky’s had, and it makes the boy think back to the little hours earlier, when Rocky had slept and Sanha had not. He thinks back to the boys smile and the fingertips on his spine, thinks back to the _fire_ he left there – and as he thinks, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, so he can look down at the younger.

Sanha turns onto his back to stare up at him, eyes filled with tired confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Rocky shakes his head, _nothing_ , and leans down to kiss him. Its short and quick and not made of much, but it’s _enough_ for now. Longer than a peck but not by much, and when he pulls away, the fire on his back in now on his lips, and Sanha’s cheeks have never been more red.

He falls back down off his elbows and to the bedsheets, curling up into Sanha’s space again. This time, he drags Sanha back against _him_ , hand clutching at his waist and heaving him flush against his body. They fall asleep like that, and like that the next day, too, and the day after that, and the weeks, and the months, years, that follow.

 

It wouldn’t be until a few years later that Rocky cleans out his bedside table, feeling his way around and tugging at the paper jammed right at the back. When he manages to get it free, his eyebrows furrow in confusion at the crinkled, dusty mess. He unfolds the paper, eyes scanning the page for answers, and then the confusion is replaced with recognition.

He thinks back to the many years ago when the sleeping pills would sit on his bedside, and this very prescription would sit beside it, reminding him it needed filling. This prescription had gone long forgotten to him the very moment Sanha wrapped his arms around him that first day, and had long expired. Rocky grins to himself at the fond memory, before scrunching up the document and throwing it behind him

Rocky can’t remember a time before being in love with Yoon Sanha – and even if he _did,_ it meant nothing to him now.

**Author's Note:**

> ahoy pals! come say [hello!](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/)


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